


Raspberries and Cream

by sexysigyn



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Cooking Lessons, F/M, Food, Food Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexysigyn/pseuds/sexysigyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OFC Irina enrolls in a cooking class… but recipes aren’t the only thing being whipped up</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raspberries and Cream

When I signed up for the cooking class, I had not expected romance. Sure, I should have anticipated that it might happen. After all, I had enrolled in a four weekend course teaching singles how to plan and prepare meals for one, maximising their budget at the grocers, and not over-cooking. There would be plenty of other lonely souls like myself in attendance, people tired of wasting time and money on pre-packaged meals designed for two.

Sixteen of us showed up on the first day, ready to cook. There was a small group of “Gourmet Gays”, as they colourfully labelled themselves, always keeping the rest of us in stitches. The five-star wannabes arrived toting their carefully cultivated cook books, the two or three people who openly admitted to being dangers to themselves and others in the kitchen, and those of us there to have fun, mingle, and whip up a few recipes. Despite the wide variety of personalities in the group, when the wine got flowing (what kind of class would it be if we didn’t dip into the merlot that was supposed to be used to marinate the beef?), the room became less of an instructional space and more akin to someone’s kitchen. The jokes flew back and forth as well as the good natured teasing.

Among these was a tall, slender man with carefully tousled and slicked back black curls, stunningly blue eyes, and the brightest smile I had encountered since moving to the city. He had taken the seat beside me on the first day and held out his hand, introducing himself as Tom. “Irina,” I replied, barely remembering my own name.

“Pleasure to meet you, Irina. What brings you here?”

“Tired of leftovers,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I hate leftovers.” There were several other women in the room who I would have declared to be more attractive than myself but here he was, easily the most handsome overall- male or female- engaging me in conversation. Looking me straight in the eye as he spoke and smiling as I admitted my intense dislike for the reheated remnants of last night’s dinner. “And you?”

“Tired of take away night after night. I’m getting too old for that five nights out of seven. Got to change before my metabolism slows and it catches up to me!”

After class on the third Sunday, he took me for coffee at his favourite café. It was a quaint place, more of an old library with an outdoor patio on which we sipped lattes and talked about seemingly everything under the sun. We were both book fanatics; nurtured by the décor of the café, discussion of literature was our first topic, one which blossomed into a three hour date. We discussed Shakespeare, the Iliad and the Odyssey, and our picks for contemporary literature. Film, theatre, and travel. Eventually conversation came around to the class where we had met. Stories of memorable family meals, favourite dishes, and failed attempts to whip up new recipes. Tom was such a natural storyteller, possessed of an incredible talent for mimicry and attention to detail with a host of facial expressions to perfectly match each twist and turn his story took. I felt I was actually part of the memory as he regaled me with the disastrous Christmas of 1996 and the burnt bird. Chased off the patio by the cool air that accompanied the sunset, he hailed me a cab at the end and kissed my cheek as he opened the door of the vehicle. I had never had such fun on a first date; I prayed it boded well for us meeting again in the future. 

Throughout the week I was hopeful that we would go out again. Saturday after class he asked me to join him for dinner at a little French bistro in North London. Over a bottle of pinot noir and beef bourguignon, we once again lost ourselves in conversation. We talked about family, growing up, hobbies, and our college misadventures. This time, he rode with me to my flat and gently kissed me goodbye. “See you tomorrow,” he promised with a wink. “Graduation day!”

He was waiting for me when I arrived at the kitchen the next day, a pale green envelope in his hand. “Congrats!” he said, handing it to me. His greeting was happy but he seemed anxious, almost as if dreading something. I figured whatever it happened to be was none of my business so I smiled back as I opened the card. The rather standard congratulatory card had a fancy three tier cake with ribbons and confetti decorating the cover but inside was the handwritten message: “Dinner tonight? At my place? Put into practice our new cooking skills.”

I laughed and nodded, watching as the tension in his face evaporated. “Oh thank God,” he breathed, hugging me. “I was afraid I was being too forward.”

“Not at all. I think it is a wonderful idea. And the way you asked is adorable; how could I refuse?”

The next four hours seemed to drag on for days. We baked our quiches Lorraine, de-boned the catfish, and whisked together a creamy Hollandaise, then toasted to one another and a job well done before tucking into our last meal. Even if I didn’t keep in touch with anyone else in this class, I had a dinner date with Tom to look forward to and hopefully many more besides. I learned some new cooking skills and met a wonderful man; it was worth the enrollment fee.

Promptly at seven, I pressed my finger to the buzzer on the gate outside his house. “Hello, Tom. It’s Irina,” I greeted, grasping the neck of the bottle of Malibu coconut rum I had brought as a host gift. He had mentioned a fondness for it over dinner Saturday and since my favourite mixed drink happened to be coconut rum and Coke, what better tipple for the evening?

“Irina!” he exclaimed brightly. “Come on in!”

A multi-coloured striped pot holder was still on his hand when he opened the door. “For me?” he asked when I handed over the alcohol. “This will go well with the tarts I have planned for dessert. Thank you.”

The interior of the space was tidy if sparse. White walls, exposed beams, and a loft over a nook with shelves jam packed with books stashed wherever there was room. It was obviously a bachelor pad but the bare bones would one day offer up some lucky woman a wonderful chance to flex her interior design skills.

Inside the door and to the right was the kitchen. He led me in and pulled a stool out for me at the bar. “I got a little nervous and I uh… I already started cooking. I hope you aren’t too disappointed in me.”

“Not at all, Tom. Whatever you are fixing smells wonderful!”

“Rosemary chicken with roasted red potatoes and onions in bordelaise sauce. Wine?”

“Merlot, please. Aren’t you just a regular Julia Child!” I ribbed.

He laughed and handed me a wine goblet. “You over estimate my ability! Let’s reserve judgment until after we’ve tasted it.”

I raised the glass in agreement. “Solid plan.”

Dinner was delicious, just as I expected. Ignoring his protests, I helped clear the table and rolled up my sleeves to scrub dishes. Music pumping through the house, we shimmied and knocked hips as we finished up the last of the plates and stacked them in the drainer.

“Ready for dessert?” he asked, rubbing his hands dry on the dish towel.

“Thought you’d never ask. What shall it be?”

Straightening his posture and puffing out his chest in a manner that suggested he was quite pleased with what he had planned, he grinned at me. “Peach melba.”

“I recant my earlier statement. You aren’t Julia Child at all! You’re Ratatouille!”

“Keep that up and you’ll just get poached peaches, no ice cream young lady!”

“I’m heartbroken,” I pouted.

“You can make it up by helping me out,” he suggested.

We managed to successfully pit and poach the peaches in the simply syrup and I had just started the blender to make the raspberry sauce when the lid came loose and thick purple juice splattered all over my face. Sputtering, I reached for a napkin or paper towel to wipe my face. None had gotten on my shirt but I didn’t want it to drip down and stain the material; while not my best shirt, it was a favourite and I’d like to be able to wear it again.

Tom noticed the accident and laughing, offered his assistance. I tried to hand him the towel in my hand but he merely ignored it, leaning in and kissing my nose. “Mmmm… perfect. Is that sugar I detect or just you?”

“I’m not sure. Taste again,” I giggled, lifting my face to kiss him full on the lips.

“Definitely you,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me close. “How do your lips taste so sweet?”

“Dunno,” I replied as I swiped my finger through a puddle of sauce on the counter. “Must be this!” I swathed it across his cheekbone and stood on my tip toes to swipe my tongue across it, the light stubble on his face tickling my tongue as I licked off every last drop.

“Is our first fight going to be a food fight?”

“We’re too old for that, don’t you think? I was thinking something more mature,” I suggested, my fingers playing at the buttons on the front of his chambray button down.

“I like the way you think.” Abandoning the elements of the dessert on the counter, he led me to the sofa, walking backward so he wouldn’t have to let go of me. Sitting down, I situated my knees on either side of his hips, cradling his face between my palms as I leaned forward to press my lips to his again.

I shivered as he slid his hands under my shirt and up my sides, fingers splayed as they roved across my back, forcing my chest flat against his. The taste of the wine and herbs from dinner was just discernible as his tongue ran across my lower lip before slipping past to tussle with mine. “I like the way you taste, too,” I complimented as I kissed the side of his mouth, my left hand tracing the line of his jaw and down his neck to unbutton his shirt.

Chest exposed, he shrugged out of his shirt and dropped it over the back of the couch, quickly turning his attention back to watching as I pulled my own blouse over my head, discarding it on the floor. No sooner had he undone the clasp in the back and pulled the straps off my shoulders than he leaned in and sucked at the skin until my nipple was hard in his mouth. Without neglecting the breast he had been teasing, he cupped it in his palm as he kissed his way across my collarbone and to the other breast, tongue circling the peak.

It had been so long since I had been with anyone; my body was extra responsive to his every touch, skin pricking with anticipation. Goosebumps dotted my arms and I ground my pelvis against his the bulge in his pants, the friction pressing the cotton of my panties harder against my wet core. Unable to stay my wandering fingers, I undid the fly of his pants and reached in, gingerly wrapping my hand around his erection. He moaned as his hips involuntarily bucked, inviting my hand further into his trousers to take more of him in my grip. He is so long! I marvelled as I stroked his velvet flesh.

Reciprocating the attention I was paying to his cock, he moved his hands from my chest and popped open the button on my jeans, tugging on the waistband. Without loosening my grip, I raised up long enough for him to yank the denim and elastic waist of my underwear down just enough that he could snake his hand between the fabric and my skin. I trembled and nearly came when his long fingers began teasing my folds, gently feeling me out.

Just as I could feel myself perching on the edge of abandoning all thought and drowning in waves of desire, I put my feet on the floor and stood, moving backward from the couch. “Did I do something wrong?” Tom asked, looking confused and somewhat hurt.

“We both did,” I clarified, shimmying out of my pants. “We are letting a perfectly good dessert go to waste.” Swinging my hips for maximum effect, I sashayed back into the kitchen knowing that Tom wouldn’t be far behind.

I heard the clinking of his belt buckle and rustle of his pants as they dropped to the floor followed by his hurried footsteps. “Took you long enough,” I taunted, biting my lower lip. “I was getting dreadfully bored.”

“Dessert isn’t the only thing going to waste,” he growled as he lunged at me, wrapping his arms around me and kissing me with a ferocity that left me breathless.

I moved so that his back was now against the counter, slathering my fingers in the magenta hued raspberry sauce. “Waste not, want not…” I waxed, falling to my knees. Using the liquid on my fingers, I coated his cock, my thumb rubbing the underside of the head as lightly licked the tip.

“Like what you taste?” he sighed. In my peripheral sight, I noticed his knuckles were white from gripping the edge of the wooden surface so tightly. The muscles in his lean thighs were taut and his abdomen was heaving as he breathed heavily, anticipating the moment I would take him into my mouth.

He didn’t have to wait long. Alternating between short, catlike flicks of my tongue, I licked him clean, tasting the saltiness of pre-cum mixing with the tangy sweetness of the berries. “No, no. Just a taste, my sweet,” he chided as I parted my lips to suck on the head. “You mustn’t get too spoiled.” Placing two fingers under my chin, he bid be rise and kissed me again, licking a bit of juice from the corner of my lips. “My turn.”

Hands on my hips, he pushed me across the narrow path through the kitchen and lifted me onto the opposite counter, crouching in front of me. My fingers carded through his raven hair as his fingers probed my cunt, the smooth tip of his tongue brushing up and down over my clit, making me squirm. Oh, he was good. Within a minute my legs were twitching as I attempted to hold back my orgasm.

Abruptly he stood and, my wetness still on my lips, pressed his forehead to mine and kissed me, cerulean eyes boring into mine as I felt him ease his length into me. I moaned into his mouth and encircled his torso in my embrace, my palms pressed flat on his flushed skin, my head lolling backward as the pleasure that had been building unravelled, leaving me crying out in ecstasy. I quivered at the feel of his teeth grazing my neck and at the softness of his hands on my backside as he held me steady. “Tom,” I cried as my pussy clenched around him.

“Irina,” he panted, “come with me.”

I needed no further urging. Holding him closer, I let go and crumpled in his arms as he thrust into me one last time. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when you invited me to cook with you but I’ll take it,” I whispered once I found my breath.

“I’d say this was the most successful recipe we’ve cooked up,” Tom chuckled.

“Only two ingredients: you plus me,” I concurred.

Nuzzling my nose, he grinned. “Couldn’t be easier!”


End file.
